


The Georgian

by compo67



Series: The Georgian [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Demon Blood, Demons, Dreams vs. Reality, Established Relationship, Haunting, M/M, Pre Season/Series 01, Psychological Horror, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set when Sam is 14 and Dean is 18, John leaves them in an abandoned mansion off the coast of Maine for the summer. Something is watching them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Classical Order

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of a series. Nothing explicit in this chapter.

One summer, when Sam had just turned fourteen, John left them in a run-down-seen-better-days-100 years-ago mansion off the coast of Maine.

The place belonged to a hunter who owed John a favor. That’s as far as details went with John.

Even though it had technically once been a mansion, that didn’t mean anything to the Winchesters. It didn’t mean anything fancy; it just meant everything was old and there was more of it. They only had electricity in half the mansion, running water in the kitchen and one of the many grimy bathrooms. Somehow the universe had managed to string together a series of motel rooms, smash them into one place, and put the Winchesters in it.

“You boys don’t need much more than that,” John declared as they hauled packs and bags in from the Impala and John’s truck. “Figure it’ll be plenty while I’m gone.”

That was it. Nothing more was said about where they were staying or for how long or why this particular area. John only spoke in statements.

 

 

Sam was set up in the room that had two working light bulbs.

“There are from the 1800’s,” Dean muttered as he turned the knob to one. “See how they’re brown at the bottom, Sam? Shit’s lasted longer than most of this place.”

It was a source of interest to Sam, that delicate light bulbs had managed to survive and function against odds like Maine winters and dry summers, but he couldn’t entirely pay attention. He felt something in the house and couldn’t shake the feeling. He figured it must be him, because if neither Dean nor John felt it then it was probably nothing.

The room only had one tiny twin bed, with dusty sheets and a lace coverlet. Sam threw his duffel on top of it and wrinkled his nose at the tufts of dust that puffed up and settled back down. John told Dean to take another room and let Sam settle in. Settling in took all of five minutes. His belongings were limited to one duffel and Sam had learned long ago to never own anything small. He had a few books, his clothes, a butterfly knife, and a flashlight. He had one poster—more like a print, of a stylized Tesla—that had fought for its perseverance through hunts and being tossed around, but he didn’t unpack it. And he didn’t clean. He didn’t see the point.

Dean came in and barked at him. “Get up and make this place decent,” he went on. “We aim to stay a while.”

Sam refused, crossing his arms over his chest. Dean hugged and grumbled something about uncool, inconsiderate little brothers as he left, boots stomping loudly throughout the grungy, poorly lit hallways. Sam followed, silent from years of practice and the aid of his soft sneakers, to where John was in the kitchen cleaning guns and sharpening knives. This was one of the most normal things about their family; they always cleaned the weapons in the kitchen no matter where they were. Sam was sure that some families out there did the same thing; they just used the weapons for different things. Very different things.

John was leaving them the Impala, which possibly meant a longer stay, but Sam had been proven wrong before.

“Dean, I don’t want problems.”

“Yes sir.”

“You spar every day with Sam. And I want to see progress on the bow by the time I get back.”

“Yes sir.”

“Man by the name of Eric Dale has work for you in town. Construction or at the garage—your pick—but I want you here, Dean. You work you come back. Is that understood?” The few times John did ask questions they were for clarification of yes-dad-yes-sir-be-sure-to-do-as-we’re-told-sir. Dean gave another clear yes sir and John stood up. Sam took a risk and peered in on father and eldest son; drill sergeant and grunt. “He’s fourteen, Dean. Don’t forget that.”

They’re standing a foot apart and John puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “You’ll do fine.”

As quietly as he followed, Sam retreats and explores the mansion, not finding much of interest until he stumbles onto a library. It’s damp and he’s sure most of the books are goners, but it’s somehow familiar and comforting. He pokes around, kicking aside debris, until he hears John call for him.

John gives him a similar speech; he has to listen to Dean, don’t spend all his time inside, and remember to work on the bow. He scruffs Sam’s hair despite the complaint and packs up the truck, giving one wave to them as he drives down the steep driveway. Dean and Sam watch him and stand outside for ten minutes, no words or movement passing between them.

Sam wonders if whatever is watching him is also watching Dean.

 

 

The next morning, after an uncomfortable night of sleep, Sam wakes up before Dean. He can hear his older brother snoring from the room he randomly chose to sprawl out in.

They’re all small rooms, which might have been bigger to the people who originally lived in them. Everything is dark still but Sam can still clearly make out the lines and curves of Dean’s body. He settles down next to Dean and presses his nose against Dean’s chest and inhales deeply. Wrapping his arms around Dean’s body, entwining their legs, Sam holds on and closes his eyes.

There was a serial killer John and Dean hunted down—thought he was a shapeshifter at first—who cut open his victims from head to toe and pried them open. Most nights, Dean reported to Bobby who all thought Sam wasn’t listening, it seemed like he’d place personal objects of his or the victim’s inside the bodies. Some nights though, the man would sleep inside the slits, as far in as he could go, just to feel closer to them.

Sometimes Sam feels like that man.

And sometimes, he knows, Dean feels that way too.

He presses in further against Dean, digging his fingers into Dean’s back. Finally, Dean snorts and grunts awake, mumbles something against Sam’s forehead, and blindly reaches for the thin blanket they own, covering them both up with a whoosh and a flutter.

“Let me sleep,” Dean gruffly mutters and slings a protective arm over Sam.

“’Kay,” Sam whispers, settling in. He doesn’t fall back asleep but he’s comfortable and warm. An hour later, he’s halfway into a fuzzy, dreamy world. He wakes up because Dean shifts and there’s a familiar bulge pressed up against Sam’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Dean groans and exhales, stretching and running a hand over his face and through his hair. “Sammy, get _off_ me.”

“No,” Sam snaps and pouts, clinging tighter. He pushes himself up a bit and presses their hips together. “Wanna,” he deliberately purrs up towards Dean, fingers bunched in the faded gray tee Dean wore to bed.

“Yeah, well, I need to piss, so too fuckin’ bad.” With that, Dean unceremoniously shoves Sam away and gets out of bed, a few joints popping. Dean stretches more and scratches at the waistband of the boxer briefs he’s wearing, looks around, and grumbles off to the nearest bathroom. Sam sighs, rolls over onto his stomach and buries himself in Dean’s pillow.

He hopes he doesn’t spend the entire summer getting rejected.

 

 

They spend the day cleaning up portions of the mansion. Dean makes Sam come with him on a preliminary tour of the grounds. Sam agrees only if he can hold Dean’s hand.

“You,” Dean declares as he looks Sam up and down, delicate eyebrow lifted, “are so fuckin’ gay.”

But he gives in and they hold hands. Sam rubs his thumb over Dean’s palm.

The mansion follows other layouts and plans common for their time. There’s an underground cellar that Dean insists on opening up and checking out. He’s armed and has Sam stand back just in case. The heavy doors creak and groan as Dean pries them apart to open. They fly open with a firm push and a foul odor knocks the wind out of them.

Dean covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and peers in, shines the flashlight in front of him. Sam hovers, anxious. Small, closed spaces make him nervous.

“Just a bunch of rotting preserves,” Dean announces, coming back up and shaking his head before he gets to close the doors. “Canning jars and that shit. Stuff must’ve been left there when this place was actually worth something.” With a grunt, he shuts the doors and bolts them. “We ain’t got any business going in there, you get me, Sammy?”

He nods his response and goes for Dean’s hand again, who grumbles about it but relents.

For once, Sam wishes he knew more about architecture styles. It’s not really something he’s ever needed to know about; monsters aren’t exactly picky about where they dwell. But as they’re walking, Sam can’t accurately describe the building or categorize its shapes and it bothers him. Vines have long since crept onto the walls, dangling off the three small balconies that are in the back. He hasn’t seen the rooms they’re connected to. They pass a side door that Sam thinks might have been a servant’s door, and it’s missing a window pane at the top.

The entire mansion is made out of brick, which Sam thinks must have been a cherry color when it was first built. Now, it’s more like the faded red, rust tint that their blood looks like on clothes and hasn’t been washed out in a while. The vines wrapping around it all creates an almost violent contrast.

“So far I’ve counted twelve rooms,” Dean murmurs, kicking aside some loose bricks. “Got two dining rooms, a sitting room, the main kitchen and a smaller back kitchen. Four bathrooms total, but only one has a toilet. There’s no basement except that janky cellar. There’s an attic but Dad says that’s off limits.” It takes them ten minutes of brisk walking to circle the entire building. Everything is overgrown and bricks are scattered like mines. Sam nearly twists his ankle on one.

“It’s all two rooms deep, except for this one corner,” Dean continues, yanking Sam closer to him. “Where it’s one big room and some crap hole of a closet or something in the corner pocket. I want you to stay in the center, where we’ve already set up. It’s nearest the smaller kitchen and one of the servant’s staircases.”

They’ve swung back to the front of the house. The entire property consists of five acres, so there’s nothing around them for a good distance and the gravel driveway makes plenty of noise when a car is on it. There’s an odd sense of stillness in the air, around the tree line, but Sam doesn’t think too much into it.

“Big ass place,” Dean says and slips his hand free of Sam’s to scrub his face.

Sam only nods in response. He looks towards a small window near the attic. He knows nothing is there, he doesn’t see anything. But he feels it. It’s watching him carefully.

“I want to go into town,” Sam murmurs and tugs on the sleeve of Dean’s jacket. It’s only the beginning of June but it’s not hot at this time of day.

“Later,” Dean dismisses and walks ahead of Sam, back inside the house.

It’s still there, with undivided attention on Sam.

“No!” Sam gasps. “Now, Dean. Now, please.”

“Sammy,” Dean growls, taking two steps forward to Sam and grabbing him roughly by the shirt collar. “Are you seeing shit that I should know about?”

He shakes his head and scrunches his eyes closed tight. He launches himself into Dean’s chest and clings. “No, Dean, no. I just… I get this feeling.”

Dean tenses up. He pulls away slightly, enough to look down at Sam and run a hand through his hair, then to rub Sam’s bottom lip with his thumb. “Sweetheart, you’re awfully quiet lately. Not like you.”

Unsure of what to say to that, Sam just forces them back together, so he’s pressed into Dean’s chest again. His brother’s heart beat is strong and sure. All those tiny parts inside his chest working together every second, every minute to give him _this_. Dean sighs and tells Sam to go wait in the Impala. He left his wallet inside.

Sam slides into the front seat—his spot when Dean is driving—and keeps a steady watch on Dean. He breathes in and breathes out, focusing and willing himself to relax.

Dean comes out two minutes later, stuffing his wallet into his right back pocket.

“Okay, let’s head out,” he says and the Impala roars to life, gravel crunching underneath.

It’s watching Dean too.

 

 


	2. Decorative Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Town is explored and something might have followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to do these as chapters instead of as a series. I think it works better format wise, since this will all be Sam's POV. Georgian architecture characteristics will be the titles and tie ins to the chapters. Explicit Weecest (with breath play) in this chapter. Sam is 14.

Town is about fifteen hundred people who primarily make their living in fishing, food, or tourism. There are a few streets of lush, carefully maintained houses and apartment complexes. They drive by a man mowing his lawn, sweating and drinking a glass of lemonade while he steers with one hand.

Motels don’t have lawns that require mowing.

It’s a place that’s a little more high end than they’re used to. It’s small town America but it belongs to the kind of people who have second homes and SUVs and simple, pressed designer clothes. The kind of clothes that looks plain, but has quality to it. The kind of clothes that never ends up in a thrift store bin for others to dig through and have something halfway decent to wear for yet another stint at another new school.

Sam sighs, Dean nods. He’s thinking the same.

The Impala rumbles into the parking lot of a modest grocery store in the center of downtown. Most of the buildings that line Main Street are smaller versions of the mansion. Sam is pretty sure this is classic New England architecture.

Dean parks away from other cars at the end of the lot and cuts the engine, his touch on the Impala respectful and reverent. He looks out the his window once and then turns to Sam, examines him with questioning, sharp green eyes. Sam blushes and fidgets. He knows Dean isn’t looking at him _that_ way. But Sam is fourteen. He gets hard at the thought of Dean.

His older brother puts an arm up on the seat and spreads his legs open. Such a simple set of gestures with such deliberate purpose. He’s trying to make Sam feel comfortable by having open body language.

John doesn’t just teach them weaponry and combat; Sam has always taken to the psychological side of training more than the physical aspect. Sometimes he wonders what that says about him as a hunter, as a person, as a teenager. Does it mean it doesn’t like to get his hands dirty? Or that he simply knows how to inflict damage through other methods, ones which keep his hands clean?

There, in the warm leather seat of the Impala, is Dean, spread out, and Sam has a need to be in all of that open space. To be seated in the firm vee of Dean’s lap.

He pushes himself forward and presses their mouths together.

Did it follow?

Dean kisses back with a tenderness Sam isn’t used to. Sam lets out a broken moan and has his hands on Dean’s neck. The trust Dean has to allow Sam to place his hands here—and any, everywhere else—never ceases to awe him. His brother is dangerous. His brother can and does hurt things. But here, in the front seat of the Impala, he allows Sam to push his fingertips into the soft, slightly stubbly skin at his throat.

“Don’t,” Dean warns and initiates a second, rougher, deeper kiss. When they pause for breath—when Sam feels the same sensation as when he stays underwater too long—Dean’s hands are on Sam’s slim hips, fingers digging. “I… I won’t stop,” Dean admits and waits. Because as much as he says he won’t, he will. He will for Sam if that’s what Sam wants.

“Do it,” Sam mumbles into the delicate bones of Dean’s left ear. He presses his lips in the space behind Dean’s ear.

 

 

Ten minutes pass and they have changed drastically. Sam is thankful Dean parked in the back of the lot. The Impala is creaking; Dean is pushing and holding Sam down as his back arches and twists in the most agile lines, keeping Sam from being seen through the windows.

It’s easier to fuck the other way, with Dean pushing in from behind, but Sam has an ache and a want and it’s been two weeks since the last time. He could sob out his relief as Dean lifts up his hips and slickly slides in and out. Sam does make a small noise when Dean presses a hand on Sam’s lower stomach, pushing down and tilting their hips up.

“I’m here,” Dean pants, his eyes half lidded. “Right _here_ , Sammy.”

That’s all it takes for Sam to lose it and come untouched, spurting all over Dean’s stomach and his own.

“Ha… ah…” Sam pants in response, trembling because Dean is now hitting his prostate on every stroke. There are times like these when Sam does not mind occupying this fourteen year old body; he’s hard again in minutes.

“Closer,” Sam cries and reaches his arms out for Dean. “Closer, please, please…”

“I got you sweetheart,” Dean purrs and leans down, the muscles in his arms flexing. Their foreheads press together for a moment, and then Sam is slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth. He bites and pulls at his brother’s bottom lip, mewling as Dean slips a hand to his throat. “Like this?” Dean asks, even though he doesn’t need to. After the first time doing this, Sam could barely have sex without it.

He wonders how Dean learned this. How to place the right amount of pressure to create pleasure and pain against Sam’s windpipe. Sam bares his throat and lets go. Dean swears and thrusts harder, each push brutal.

It followed.

Sam feels his mouth form into an O and his entire body spasms. Dean releases on his throat and shouts his name.

Sam makes a mess of them for a second time.

 

 

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hurt Sam’s eyes.

His ass hurts too, but he minds that less. Dean licked him clean all over, a tender gesture that tells Sam Dean is concerned.

He wishes Dean wouldn’t worry so much. He wishes John worried more. In ways that mattered.

“I’ll blow you when we get back,” Sam says as he picks up a gallon of icy cold milk. Dean freezes and glares, grabs Sam by the wrinkled collar of his shirt and twists.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean warns. “Quit it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well say it a little less loud, will ya?” Dean grumbles and walks off with the cart. His gait is a little slower, little more forced. Sam smiles and squashes a laugh. Dean pulled a muscle.

 

 

They don’t talk much. They’ve never really had to. There are slight movements Dean makes, or the way his body language shifts, that tell Sam plenty. Sam could write a book about Dean’s nonverbal cues; he supposes he could write a smaller book on John’s.

The rest of the day is spent in town, until Dean remembers that there’s milk and perishables in the Impala. But before that, they stop at an ice cream parlor with only four flavors (chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and coffee) and Dean takes exactly three licks off Sam’s before Sam punches Dean in the shoulder.

Things almost feel normal.

At two in the afternoon, they over to Dale’s Garage, as the sign states. Sam examines the curves the letters make as he hangs back, allows Dean to slip on a mask and become Dean Winchester, John’s boy, here looking for work, sir.

He listens in on the conversation between Eric and Dean.

“Knew your dad in Kansas, never figured he’d come out this way,” Eric rattles on. “He teach you about cars?”

“Yes sir,” Dean replies smoothly. “We spend a lot of our time on the road, him and my brother.”

There’s a pause, which means Eric is looking Sam over. Sam’s not facing them. He’s concentrating on the ground because now he feels nausea creep up from the pit of his stomach to the tip of his tongue.

The tip of his tongue where Dean’s tongue was not too long ago.

“Your brother don’t talk much, huh?”

“He’s… shy,” Dean mumbles. “Y’know how it is.”

Eric tells Dean the garage could use more help than the construction site. Pays a touch better, too. Dean shakes the man’s hand and walks out to see Sam.

“Dean,” Sam blurts out, “I think I’m gonna…”

“Oh shit, Sam,” Dean mutters and steps towards Sam. He knows the look on Sam’s face because he’s always been there to see it. The look that says Sam is two seconds away from throwing up and vomiting everywhere. Sam knows that some people think that’s endearing. It is, in a way, but mostly it’s just Dean.

Vomit rushes up his throat with a force he didn’t know could happen.

He’s crying and whining in between heaves, getting sick all over himself and Dean, bent over and struggling to stand. Dean holds him up. Dean steadies him and says things like sweetheart and baby and my boy. Dean sweeps the hair out of Sam’s face.

“There you go. That’s it.”

Sam wishes he could concentrate better on Dean’s voice. On those lovely little things he’s saying because he doesn’t say them often, especially not outside the Impala. But something is overriding Dean. And that truly frightens Sam. Nothing has ever overridden Sam’s natural instinct of _Dean_. Not even John. Not even when John digs and cuts into him about training and hunting and work the bow Sam, work it, you’re not trying hard enough. Little does John know Sam works the bow of Dean’s back, works the heavy weight of Dean’s cock hard enough that Dean will gasp, “Sammy,” and groan and lick the sweat off Sam’s neck.

 

 

Something blocks Dean out for thirty seconds.

It’s thirty seconds and Sam panics.

His eyes are open, he knows this, because he’s turned up and looking towards the sun, but he doesn’t see Dean. He doesn’t even see the sky. He just knows the sun is there and something else.

There is no glimpse of it.

 

 

Thirty one seconds pass and Dean is allowed back. Sam takes a gulp of air and reaches out to grab some part of Dean. Any part.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, Sammy,” Dean spills and touches Sam’s face.

They’re in the Impala again.

She is still warm and comfortable and smells like sex between two teenaged boys, with a trace of gunpowder under all of that.

“You threw up blood, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Sam can’t reply. His throat hurts and for a second he’s sad Dean wasted the money on ice cream. Look how it all ended up.

 

 

Something creeps over Dean’s shoulder and stares.

It stares and stares and _stares_.

It kisses the place behind Dean’s ear.

Sam threw up blood and it looked like a sunset splattered on the sidewalk of a nice town with nice people and nice things.

 

 

Except for something.


	3. Double-Hung Sash Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam descends further into something's grasp. It brings a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to stop writing these before I go to bed. I end up sleeping with all the lights on. ;-;
> 
> If the narrative seems confusing, it's meant to be. Hoping it comes off that way--as purposeful instead of just bad writing. 
> 
> Explicit Weecest in this chapter. Also, small implications of self-harm, suicide.

The first thing Sam asks when he wakes up is, “Dean?”

 

And the first thing he hears in response is, “Sammy?”

After that, he asks a few more questions and Dean answers back.

“Back at the old place, Sam,” Dean mutters and pulls the blankets up around Sam. The tenderness is gone after that. “I want answers, _now_.”

Sam isn’t proud of this, but he stalls, asks for a glass of water and a change of clothes. Seems that he’s soaked through the boxers and undershirt Dean stripped him down to. He smells like cold sweat and vomit and he really wants a bath but he has no energy. Dean does all the work for him, undressing him completely and slipping him into a pair of Dean’s charcoal gray boxer briefs. Sam trusts Dean’s hands on any and every part of him.

“Don’t,” Sam whispers as Dean moves to get up.

“You want water, I gotta actually go get it.”

“No, it’s okay, I’m good.”

They’re in the room with the two working light bulbs. One flickers on and off, while the other is constant. They each cast light on the wallpaper Sam hadn’t noticed before. It’s a vine print, like the actual vines outside, covering and sheltering the house.

Keeping things out.

Keeping things in.

“I need to research,” Sam mumbles and tries to sit up, roll off the bed. The world around him swims and Dean is a gradient.

“Yeah, see how far you get,” Dean replies roughly and stands up, the mattress creaking. “I’m gonna get you water and some aspirin. You’ve got a fuckin’ fever. And don’t complain because I can’t stay by you every god damned second.”

Sam’s mind flits back to that serial killer.

If he were an object, would someone place him inside Dean? Or perhaps vice versa?

 

He knows Dean’s worried and that’s why he’s being gruff. Sam twists his fingers into the blankets and tries not to focus on anything in the room. He counts to fifteen and Dean returns with a pitcher, glass, pills, and a piece of bread. As soon as it’s clear Sam can keep down the water, Dean breaks off pieces of the bread and hands them to Sam, who eats slowly, holding out his hands for more each time he’s finished.

“Enough,” Dean snaps, agitated. “Start talking.”

Is it around?

Can it hear?

Does it understand speech or only emotion?

It’s not near Dean.

“I… I can’t see it. I just know it’s there, honest, Dean. I would’ve said something you…”

“Don’t,” his older brother interrupts and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Facts, now.”

He tries his best to say every detail and he keeps his voice down. He tries to focus on capturing details because John trained them that details might be the difference in breathing and not breathing.

He winds down with, “I don’t know what it is. It’s just… there. And it can follow. And…I think…it has emotions.” Dean is pacing the small room now, hands behind him, braced on his neck. His eyes are hard and cold, determined and angry.

“Don’t you ever keep shit like this to yourself again, do you hear me?” Dean growls in Sam’s direction but doesn’t stop pacing. “I have to know I can trust you, Sam! Do you understand? I have to know that you’ll speak up when something is wrong. I can’t be there every second!”

“Why not?!” Sam shouts without meaning to. “Why can’t you be there every second?”

“Because you’re not a baby!”

“What if I want you there every second, huh?”

“Shut up Sam,” Dean barks. “Shut up and go back to sleep!”

“Where are you going?”

“Out! To figure this shit out because you obviously don’t fuckin’ care!” Dean’s storming through the hallway, down to his room and Sam is following, staggering and stumbling after him. He trips because he’s so fucking dizzy, nothing he does will get rid of it.

“This isn’t you,” Dean shouts and gets to his knees in front of Sam. “This isn’t _you_.”

“This isn’t you!” Sam snaps back. “Don’t, Dean, please…” Sam starts sobbing, unable to stop. He’s a trembling mess in Dean’s arms, clinging to him as hard as he can grip. He can’t focus his eyes on any single spot. He’s having nightmares while he’s awake. At least he thinks he’s awake. Does Dean talk to him—treat him—like this in Sam’s dreams? Most nights Sam dreams of Dean and him ten years down, sharing an apartment and sleeping on real beds, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always under the same roof. He dreams of Dean all to himself, until a natural order demands one of them away and even then, Sam knows—he feels it in the marrow of his bones—that neither one of them would be too long to follow.

“Dean!” Sam screams and twists in Dean’s arms, which become a mattress and Sam is throwing up the slice of bread and glass of water.

“No, no, no…” Sam continues to sob when he’s done retching, clutching at his heart. He leaves Dean. Dean refuses to go with him somewhere warm. There’s someone like Dean burning on a ceiling but it’s not his mother. He sees this with adult eyes this time, and watches as the flames eat into their body, smells their burning flesh and breathes in pieces of their ash.

This is all going to happen.

Something knows.

A vine breaks in through the window, shatters the glass and the pane. It curls and flexes out, swiftly towards Sam on the bed.

It touches his cheek, like a mother would, Sam imagines.

The only mother Sam’s ever had is Dean. And Dean is so many things in Sam’s small life, Sam wants to be all of them in return for Dean.

But you aren’t, the vine tells him, stroking under his chin and wrapping around his neck in elegant swoops. And you never will be.

Sam could handle some of this—Dean still sleeps with women when they’re on the road, as an outlet when he can’t have Sam and to make John proud.

“Lady killer,” John says with frequency, gives Dean an affection pat on the back.

You will be the death of him.

The vine strikes at Sam twice, whipping him fast and brutal across his bare chest, directly above his heart. It snaps back through the window as if it were elastic. Glass is everywhere and Sam’s bleeding.

Something is watching.

It’s waiting.

It’s very patient and pleased.

 

 

The way Sam hears it later, Dean never fed him a slice of bread.

“You’re burning up,” Dean mutters as he sets the thermometer down on the nightstand. “Hundred and four and climbing, shit. Here.” Dean shoves three aspirin into Sam’s left hand. “Sammy, god dammit!” He barks and kicks around shards of glass and pieces of broken pane. “I went through this whole place with my EMF and found _squat_. What is going on with you? Why… why would you hurt yourself?”

His older brother points an accusing finger at the blistered red marks on Sam’s chest.

Then there’s that look.

It’s one John gets when Sam doesn’t hit the mark during target practice.

Or when Sam fails to join in on John and Dean’s exuberance during a hunt.

Sam curls up on the bed, knees to his chest. He doesn’t look at Dean while he tells him about the vine.

“Sweetheart,” Dean says, suddenly sitting next to Sam, holding a glass of water to his lips. “Drink up.”

Confused, Sam drinks and reaches out for Dean, who allows Sam to rest his sweat damp head on his shoulder. Dean rubs his back in slow circles; the ring he always wears is a comforting presence. Sam is dressed in one of Dean’s old Zeppelin shirts and a pair of gray boxer briefs. He looks onto his chest and there aren’t any wounds, only faint welts.

It’s all so unclear.

 

“This isn’t me,” Sam sputters and looks up at Dean. “Dean, I can’t wake up.”

“Buddy, you’ve been asleep since you puked all over the street. That was hours ago.”

“I… I know…and I’m not awake now.”

Dean eyes him cautiously. “Yeah, you _are_. Your fever finally broke.” Dean places a hand on Sam’s forehead as if to reassure himself of what he just said. “C’mon, you stink and you sweat through everything. I’ll get you a bath and you can rest more after that.”

He doesn’t know what to do. Is he dreaming again?

Dreams or not he’ll trust Dean.

 

It must be so easy to manipulate him.

 

He wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and Dean hefts him up, muttering something about not being able to do this much longer, he can tell Sam’s going to hit a growth spurt soon. Carefully, Dean gets them to the working bathroom. “Cleaned it while you were out,” Dean murmurs, as if Sam cares at this point. Sam concentrates on Dean, trying to evaluate his movements, the tone of his speech.

“Up.” Dean pulls the shirt off Sam and then the boxers.

He’s never been self-conscious in front of Dean.

Suddenly, he is, and he’s not sure what to do.

“Easy,” Dean says softly, reaching over and checking to see if the water is warm enough. “You’ll feel better after this.”

Sam isn’t sure whether he is annoyed or grateful.

He can handle a .45 just like the rest of them. He _can_ be a hunter. It’s possible because John has seen to that. He can get out of this nightmare because it isn’t a nightmare. He sinks into the tub and sighs. He doesn’t know how a place this old and run down still has a functioning water heater, but he doesn’t care. Dean found a way to make it work.

“Come in with me,” Sam mumbles, eyes closed.

“Ain’t room enough for both of us, Sammy.”

“There can be,” he says, eyes open.

Dean frowns; he looks older when he does that. “Take your bath, Sam.”

This isn’t a nightmare. This is real.

“I wanna…” he breathes and his right hand travels down, dipping through the water and onto his cock. He starts with slow strokes, spreads his legs apart, and adjusts for more thorough access. He looks at Dean the entire time, who watches him and his hand. “I’ll feel better.”

“How is that gonna make you feel better.”

“I’ll know you’re real.”

“You know I’m real. I told you.”

“But I’ll feel it. And I wanna feel it, Dean. Please.”

His brother gives in. This is real. Dean strips and makes Sam stand up in the tub so he can get in. He lowers himself and Sam admires the way the muscles in Dean’s arms flex. There isn’t much room to move, so Sam perches on Dean’s lap, Dean’s chest pressed to his back. He sits slightly above Dean’s half hard cock, leans back and bares his throat.

“Jesus,” Dean swears and runs a hand down the length of Sam’s throat, down his chest, middle, thighs. “Sammy, are you…”

 

Something isn’t around. For now.

It’s not watching them.

It’s not anywhere near Dean.

 

Sam reaches back and tugs on Dean’s short hair, grinding his hips down, listening to the water slosh. Dean’s toes curl and his thighs tense up. It’s not too much longer when Dean has his mouth on Sam’s neck, biting down roughly. Each of them has a hand on the other’s cock. It’s awkward and slippery and the water is too hot.

The bathroom is small. It’s got a sink, a toilet, and the claw foot bathtub. Nothing is fancy and nothing is new, even the toilet. Whatever hunter had this place before can’t have added anything recently. There no windows in the bathroom, not even a mirror.

Sam isn’t sure who groans, or if it’s both of them. He braces himself on the edges of the tub, Dean’s hands on his hips, groping and squeezing his ass. He slips a finger in like he’s putting on a glove. Sam takes it easily, just like he takes the next two, until he’s begging Dean to stop because fingers are good but there’s better to be had and Sam wants it all.

“Easy,” Dean purrs, reclining back and angling his hips up. “Not all at once, sweetheart.”

At the press of the thick head against him, Sam’s fingers dig into the tub. He breathes and pushes out, just like Dean taught him, and feels the head slide in. His cock jerks and he’s about to come just from that, but Dean’s hand is at the root of him. Sam’s skin itches.

They’ve never had sex in a tub before. The sensations are new to Sam. He constantly feels like he’s going to slip off Dean’s lap or tumble out. But Dean’s hands are there, grounding him.

“Shit,” Dean moans. “Sink down, that’s right, easy baby. Fuck yes.” His hips stutter but he stays mostly still as Sam works his hips down, inch by inch. Sam lets out a groan and pushes his spine straighter, shoulders back. When he’s seated, he needs a minute to adjust. He looks up at the ceiling and gasps when Dean runs a hand down his back. Sam brings a knee up and starts to get the leverage he needs to move up and down.

Shouldn’t the water be getting colder, not hotter?

Dean hits his prostate and that thought dies quickly.

The pace they set up is fast, both of them working past the difficulty of the space and water. Sam almost comes again because Dean is hitting is prostate on every thrust. His balls feel heavy and his cock is throbbing against the tight hold Dean has on him. Dean forces Sam’s hips down and pushes up, as deep as he can, sitting up now and pressing them chest to back like before. Sam whines, his eyes fluttering open and close as he contracts the muscles snug against Dean. Dean groans in response.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Sam isn’t sure who is saying that.

There’s steam now, though it wasn’t there before.

And there’s a smell that Sam can’t quite pin. He’s trying though. He knows that smell. Knows it like Dean’s aftershave.

“Let me come,” Sam pants, trying to move. Dean holds him still, arms wrapped around him.

“Wanna see a big load baby,” Dean pants back and bites his neck again. “Hold off for me.”

Dean thrusts in shallowly, but his aim is true, and Sam is wound up. He tightens and swivels his hips as much as he can and he’s crying from over stimulation. Sometimes they have sex that’s fast and brutal. Sometimes they have sex that’s slow and breaking. Dean rips him apart—tests his limits—and sorts through the pieces.

The single light bulb in the bathroom goes out just as Dean releases his hand. Sam screams and rocks against Dean as his orgasm hits. He clenches his ass as hard as he can. He feels so full. So filled.

“Coming, coming,” Sam gasps and watches Dean’s hand stroke him through it. He’s lifted up, so the tip of his cock pokes out from the water. Dean angles them up and back and Sam’s coming all over himself with a force that has him shaking. Ropes of come hit his belly first, then his throat, and as Dean’s still fucking against his prostate, on his chin and cheek. Sam is slipping and sliding, all but flailing in the tub as Dean pushes him to another orgasm, his hand stroking rougher and tighter, his cock pumping into him with heat and hardness.

“I’m here little brother,” Dean groans and presses his free hand to Sam’s lower stomach. “Right here.”

Sam feels his face scrunch up as he opens his mouth to shout. He lets out a string of curses and moans and comes again, tensing up. He feels Dean’s cock twitch and throb and he’s filled with a wetness that comes from him, not the bath water.

 

They’re both panting and out of breath for a good while.

 

Sam closes his eyes and rests against Dean, one arm slung back, hanging over Dean’s shoulder. Dean kisses his cheek and licks off the come he can reach without moving them.

He relaxes. Dean will pull them out and put them both to bed.

When his eyes open next, he’s in the tub and Dean isn’t there but he’s not alone.

 

 

The vine is there. 


	4. Blind Dormer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new addition to the mansion arrives, Sam can't wake Dean up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter here, with no explicit sex.

“Do you call anyone else sweetheart?”

“No, just you.”

“Only me?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Only you.”

 

 

It’s strange, but Sam remembers his mother’s death.

Moments are fragmented but they remain, occupying his nightmares from time to time, like a pot being stirred. They rotate in and out. They happen more often when John is upset with Sam’s lack of enthusiasm for hunting.

So Sam has learned to be quiet.

Because he can only take so much.

She hung from the ceiling and her face was twisted in pain. She was gasping, mouth open like a fish.

Dean remembers her making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with the crusts cut off.

Sam remembers her bleeding.

 

 

Something is snoring.

No.

It’s not something.

Sam jerks awake and kicks a foot out. Dean snorts and shoves at Sam in immediate retaliation, but doesn’t wake up. It’s so normal, Sam could cry. Tufts of dirty blonde hair stick up from under the blankets they are both nested under. They’re on the floor. Sam guesses there wasn’t enough room for both of them on the twin bed. It’s comfortable though. Dean made it so.

Sam scoots over, closer to Dean, huddles under the blankets and presses them flush together. He has his chest pressed to Dean’s back this time. Dean’s snoring lulls him, soothes him into a state of calm numbness. It’s a constant sound that Sam thinks of as one his most precious possessions. The sound has always been there with him. He can carry it to every moldy motel room.

“Used to find Dean in your crib most mornings,” John told Sam once. “No getting him out of there either.”

Sam sighs and holds onto Dean. In a few hours it’ll be morning. His eyes close and he feels himself pulled back into sleep.

He rolls over, onto his stomach, sniffling slightly. He hears floorboards creaking. The sounds of shuffling and dragging are loud in the otherwise empty mansion. The footsteps sound heavy and slow, like they can’t see or they aren’t familiar with the layout.

Like they’re searching.

Sam opens his mouth to call out to Dean, to tell him he’s a fool for getting up to piss without a flashlight in this place. But he turns slightly and sees that Dean’s next to him. He has been this entire time. And he’s still snoring.

For a second, Sam thinks John might be back. Maybe he’s injured. But Sam knows what John’s footsteps sound like in any situation—from angry to sad to drunk. It’s not John.

Carefully, he sits up. He has to wake Dean.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees the vine.

It bobs in the air outside the window of this room. It’s smiling as a snake would.

 

“Dean,” Sam whispers, forcing himself to look away from the vine. “C’mon Dean, wake up!”

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and shakes him. Whoever is in the mansion is moving around freely, in and out of all the rooms down the hallway. Until it reaches the room next to the one they’re occupying. It takes its time. The floorboards groan.

Sam shoves Dean harder, annoyed that Dean can sleep through this. He pushes too hard and Dean flips over, onto his back, sprawled out. His eyes are wide open. His mouth hangs open with his tongue peeking out slightly, like he was mid-scream.

Dean’s…

His entire abdomen has been ripped to shreds.

 

 

Sam’s hands are covered in his brother’s blood.

The snoring isn’t snoring. It’s breathing.

And that breathing belongs to the footsteps.

And the footsteps are at the doorway.

 

 

The vine taps against the window and throws itself back, screeching in glee.

 


	5. Golden Ratio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves Sam and Dean in a mansion during the summer, when Sam is fourteen. This is not what Sam expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter, but this felt like a good place to end this one.
> 
> Warnings here for gore and ideologically sensitive content.

At first, Sam doesn’t recognize the person in the doorway.

He has John’s build.

But Sam—as his hands grip onto Dean’s still, cold shoulders—remembers back to the Impala. Back to where Dean had him, tight and flexing, warm and aching. Back to a few simple kisses shared between them in the warm leather hold of the only home they’ve had.

Right after.

After clean up and grocery shopping and Sam sneaking a hand into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans in the empty bread aisle.

Eric Dale stands there, a smile on his face.

There’s that smell again.

His eyes are red. He focuses them on Sam.

 

This is a dream. It has to be. It just has to. He wills himself to wake up. He _will_ wake up in the backseat of the Impala. This is a product of too many late night horror movies and junk food with Dean. This is a dream. A nightmare. And nightmares have to end.

 

“Tell yourself that, boy,” Dale sneers with a voice that is twisted, distorted, muffled like it’s underwater. It’s nothing like what it was at the garage. Dale remains in the doorway, taunting from a distance because dream or not, there’s a line of salt between them.

“You’re special, didn’t ya know that? Or you too busy fucking around to notice? Your daddy knows. And I know, too. I smelled it on you—along with the filth and sin you committed. You two think you’re in your own little world and you’ve got it all wrong.”

Sam can hear himself breathing in short, panicked gasps. He has to simultaneously ignore and decode what Dale is spitting out, while trying to figure out how—how the _fuck_ —to get out of this.

 

Because Sam has had enough.

 

Dean’s knife is under his pillow. Sam moves to get it.

“It’s not there,” Dale laughs. “It’s not there.”

Sam only knows one way of escaping nightmares and he needs a weapon.

“They’re all trying to mold you into their pawn, Sammy. The further away you drift from daddy and big brother, the angrier you make everyone. And you, boy, have some seriously interested parties.”

Shadows in the room become people. They reach out—from the floorboards and walls—and wrap around Dean. Sam screams. He goes to throw himself over his brother’s body but they burn him. They don’t leave marks but he can feel each sting from the writhing mass of inky forms. He notices that they all have eyes, which stare back at him wide and mad. They’re shadows of skeletons, silently screaming, twisting, pulling, and roaring.

“Souls from hell that are irredeemable, boy,” Dale says with a guffaw. “And your brother—he’s destined to join ‘em!”

“No!” Sam gasps, struggling and burning himself over and over. If Dean’s… if Dean’s…

“What scares you more?!” Dale shouts and the walls shake. “That you are or aren’t dreaming? What hurts more to know, boy? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”

The shadows swell, more are joining, rushing at Sam and Dean. They frenzy and give one hard pull. Dean’s body is dragged—slid—into a dark corner of the room, disappearing. The noise and whirring they brought with them is gone. Dale’s breathing remains.

 

Sam sits.

He sits and he stares at his hands.

His hands that are once again clean.

Maybe they were never clean.

 

“Isn’t it fascinating, Sammy? That this could very well be your reality and _not_ a nightmare?” Dale’s voice whispers directly into Sam’s ear, causing him to shudder. “This is the life you’re gonna have until you fall into a pit—alone and unremembered.”

Noises at the window distract Sam for a moment. He takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself. He has to remain calm. He can’t slip out of the tub. He can’t tumble out of the Impala.

 

The vine is at the window. Again.

 

But it’s lost its sense of calm.

It’s panicking.

It’s winding and banging against the window repeatedly. _Thwap thwap thwap_. Sam can hear it shrieking and yowling in desperation, losing control of itself, leaves turning in every direction.

Why can’t it get in?

It’s beating itself to agony trying, the force with which shakes the walls, causes pictures and paintings to fall and break. Large dark spots appear on the floor and Sam stands, trying to brace himself. Dale is laughing hysterically, giggling and snorting at times. Sam’s eyes widen as he realizes the spots turn into freckles that turn into freckles on a back that turn into Dean’s smile.

His stomach turns but he leans forward to kiss Dean anyway.

They press together and Sam resists the twinge in his heart.

He ignores the burning in his hands as Dean laces their fingers together.

He focuses on the familiar, wet, hot comfort of Dean’s mouth. Sam leans in. Sam begs for more. He mumbles out a string of “Dean, I can’t… Dean, more… Dean, I have to have more…” until Dean is ripping Sam open.

Forehead to mouth to throat to chest to stomach to hips.

Blood and rotting vines pour out. Fire surrounds them. And that smell. Always that smell.

Sam howls in grief, even when he’s torn apart, and becomes the husk for his brother to slip into.

 

 

Dean slots into Sam.

            A perfect fit.


	6. Symmetrical Exterior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is breaking in every way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!

It’s something that saves Sam.

 

Well, it takes him out of the mansion—away from Dale—at least.

Something reaches out and Sam reaches back.

It grips onto his heart, but Sam grips onto nothing. It seizes soft, silky tissue and peers inside with delicate instruments. It smiles, like things are right. Like it is satisfied with Sam as a product, as a result of some unknown action.

Something surrounds him with a million, tiny, sharp teeth. It expands and laughs as it drags its teeth over Sam just enough to get him to tense up, just enough for his blood to rise to the surface of his skin. The teeth let go and Sam is dropped into the backseat of the Impala, parked innocuously on the gravel drive outside the mansion.

Sam lets out a small laugh and falls back onto her leather seats. He takes a moment; he feels his heart beating erratically and he can’t stop shaking. The world around him is in constant focus and refocus. He either sees everything or sees nothing at all. It makes it difficult to concentrate on breathing.

 

There’s energy under his skin that feels foreign and somehow intimate. It makes him sweat; it feels like an intense craving, similar to when he crave his brother’s…

 

A hand hits the window on Sam’s left, jolting him out of his thoughts.

He may have jumped and startled a little, but he was proud of himself for not screaming.

It’s not the vine.

And it’s not something. Nor is it Dale.

 

It’s Dean.

Dean is pounding his right hand against the window and trying to open the door. Muffled shouting and swearing gets through. “Sam! Sammy! Open up! We have to get out of here, dammit! Quit dragging your feet and let’s _go_! Move!”

Sam does not move. He stays perfectly still. If they had to leave, Dean would be trying to get into the Impala, not away from her. Whatever this thing is, this copy that looks like his brother, is trying to lure Sam out into the open. Sam lets the imposter keep screaming and punching the car door. Dean would never hurt his baby like that. He peers out from his place, trying to see the mansion. Lights are on in the mansion, despite John having checked every room and light bulb, announcing that only two were working.

Even then, the two light bulbs flickered.

The imposter gets increasingly irritated and desperate, now trying to pick the lock, and loudly cursing Sam all the while. Sam wonders what would happen if he became completely passive. If he yielded to these things that cradle his heart and head in a private well of nightmares and sickness.

What could they possibly take from him? They already had Dean.

He has nothing more than the blood in his veins that had cost them all the life of his mother. Whoever she was, whoever she could have been, whatever she might have done in and for the world is gone. Never again possible because of Sam’s existence. The lives of the Winchester men forever altered because of each breath Sam took. They did this—all of this—now because of him.

The Impala keeps Dean out.

The imposter sinks down to sit against the door. He appears to give up.

Sam catches a glimpse of movement in the mansion. He leans forward slightly, grateful for the momentary quiet. He squints his eyes and tries to focus. What is he seeing and what does he think he’s seeing?

 

A copy of himself is in the attic, banging at the small attic window in the center of the mansion.

Sam feels no sympathy for the copy. Something is behind this. Something dares to take his image and manipulate it right in front of him. Something dares to put _two_ Sam Winchesters in the world at once when one fucks things up enough.

Sam watches, still as ever, as the vine curls up and around the copy. It stokes his cheek in the same way as the copy tries to get away. The copy does not twist elegantly. It writhes and twitches. It claws at the window. Sam knows it’s screaming, or at least trying to. It doesn’t realize that struggling makes it worse. The vine laces itself all over the Sam copy, coils tightly around his neck.

As the vine gracefully loops itself around every inch of body, Sam reads two words written in blood on the window.

Get out.

The copy stops struggling. Sam feels a twinge in his neck. The copy’s neck snaps.

Sam feels a curt degree of relief.

 

 

Under the front seat of the Impala, Sam finds the silver knife John keeps there. It’s sharp and slick. He holds it with his right hand and feels the weight of it. Sam is panicking. But he’s so calm.

He grips onto the knife and slowly opens the door opposite from Dean.

As he steps out, he’s hit by a chill. Night time is different here, wherever here is. It’s cold but that doesn’t quite cut it. It’s a deep, burning, biting freeze that touches him everywhere. It violates every once-warm part of him and sticks onto him, relentless. Darkness feels like the color yellow mixed with black and slathered in thick, nauseating layers. He feels like he will remember this in the future.

“Sammy!” Dean is back, his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Fucking hell, Sam. Follow me. C’mon!”

“No!” Sam spits out and tries to strike against Dean. This Dean is older. His eyes are sadder. And he doesn’t have his amulet on. Sam wants to hurt this copy. His copy died, this one should have the decency to join it.

“Don’t! Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” Dean roars and slams Sam against the Impala. “This is real, Sam. _You_ are real. All of this is happening, do you understand me?” Dean smacks the knife out of Sam’s hand; it falls pointing towards the mansion.

“I have to get you out of here, Sam. Listen to me.” Dean forces them close, his voice rough and eyes desperate. Despite the chill, Sam can’t see his breath. “Snap out of this Sam! You’re not dreaming anymore!”

His face is no longer youthful. His eyes are not playful. He feels like the same kind of cold that pervades the night.

“You’re not real,” Sam mumbles sadly.

 

It had started out so simply.

John had just dumped them here and they were going to fall deep into a rhythm that had no name. They were going to lounge in empty rooms, swapping kisses and come, lounging and stretching out like housecats. They were going to share one bed. They were going to have entire conversations with glances and swift licks and marking bites.

 

“I am real,” Dean hisses, bringing Sam back to the present. “The fuck, Sam? You’re just givin’ up? That how it is? You’re just gonna lay down? Roll over? Fine. You couldn’t save me, why should I think you could save yourself.” He shoves Sam away from him and turns, walking angrily into the forest.

Sam watches. He watches and his heart snaps.

The sun rises.

It doesn’t get any warmer.

 

 

Back inside the relative safety of the Impala, Sam attempts to clear his head and piece things together.

The vine and something are linked; perhaps they are working together. In this moment, something is gone and the vine is nowhere to be seen.

Dale is a curious third-party. There’s a commonality there, but Sam thinks it’s unexpected.

 

He stretches out in the backseat. Little brothers’ territory.

He thinks back to the garage, being there with Dean. How at first he’d stood side by side with him. He listened to Dale and Dean go on about cars and parts. Sam could feel the familiar rumble of his brother’s voice on the space above his heart.

Sam felt tired but happy. Worn out from sex, his muscles a little sore from the confined space. He had plans for bath later on. He wanted to wash the come and sweat from himself before settling in for the evening beside Dean.

Twisting, his mind flits back to a lesson at the last school Sam attended before summer break. Some miniscule school with good teachers and actual meat in their cafeteria food. The kind of school that got enough funding and all of its students were well-dressed in smart, pressed khakis. The kind of school Sam wondered what John had to do to get him and Dean into. The kind of school that could have been.

 

He thinks of this lesson. He keeps meaning to share it with Dean. Even if Dean will call him a nerd at the end of it.

There are millions of planets in solar systems outside our own.

They’re called exoplanets.

They can resemble Earth by being rock based, but many are jovial giants, like Jupiter.

Sam enjoys the word jovial. He turns it around some.

Exoplanets have their own stars that they orbit. There are many exoplanets that orbit its star incredibly close; the exoplanet is constantly on fire.

Burning is all the planet knows.

 

 

Sam knows there’s a deeper meaning here.

 

 

Something agrees.


	7. Baseboard, Crown, and Casings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a summer in Maine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking through until the end! I had fun writing this. I don't usually do fics like these. Kudos are lovely and comments are so very appreciated.

At five in the morning on a gray Tuesday, Dean watches his brother.

He holds his breath as Sam’s eyes slowly open, blinking away sweat and crust.  Dean presses a damp cloth to Sam’s forehead and eyes, wiping gently. He will never admit to anyone the kinds of things he whispers as he makes his brother comfortable. Sam lets out a small sob and sniffles.

Efficiently, but with a careful hand, Dean fixes the blankets. John says that they’re moving out; they’ll drive to their next hunt and stop in town to see a doctor before settling in.

Dean murmurs a “yes, sir” and transplants Sam from the dirty motel bed to the backseat of the Impala. Sam’s getting taller—and less sinewy—but Dean can still carry him. He wants to hold onto that always.

He never does take his eyes off of Sam.

 

 

 

Sam wakes up with a clarity he hasn’t felt in an age.

He sits up and sees John driving, Dean looking back at him from the front seat.

Blankets and Dean’s jacket cover him despite the sun outside. But he’s right. He feels right. His brother smiles, relieved, and says, “Hey little brother, welcome back.” The amulet is there. John turns down the music, as much recognition as any. The rumble of the Impala is true.

“Where are we?” Sam asks, shifting around, stretching. There are things that Sam remembers in jagged pieces that scrape against his heart and mind. He knows he’ll never be quite the same. He understands a portion of the road ahead. The urge to crawl inside Dean is still there, but it shares a place with a pull at his veins. He is trying his best to focus on one thought at a time; the term exoplanet catches his attention one second and is gone the next.

 

John mutters to Dean to check the map.

Dean is quick about it and Sam can’t get enough of watching him. He never wants Dean to get old and bitter. Part of him is already because he’s been a Winchester too long. But Sam will try.

He’ll try to take care of Dean as long as he can.

His brother folds out the map, licks his lips, and clears his throat.

“Just ‘bout 100 miles from the Maine state line.”

 

Sam’s stomach drops.

“Got a hunt I need to get to. Friend of a friend owns this portion of land; used to be a mansion. You boys don’t need much more than that. Got work for you too, Dean.” John announces in a deep rumble that matches the Impala. “Figure it’ll be plenty while I’m gone.”

 

Sam opens his mouth to protest.

He notices something out of the corner of his eye.

It’s the vine.

Wound around his left ankle, cut off and frayed at the end, dripping with blood.

Something leaves. But it promises to come back.

 

Sam screams.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years after, something meets someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I wasn't going to write an epilogue, but then I reread things and figured this piece could use it.

For a few years in hell, Dean Winchester is _pleased_.

The thing before him is his own special project.

The very first to have a taste of his own set of tools, given to him by Master. At first something resists. It fights and lashes out and is very, very disobedient. But that’s okay. That’s _cool_. Dean loves each twist away from him, each howl of pain, each filthy prayer as it begs for mercy.

 

Master makes him stop.

Only because there is nothing left.

Nothing more to play with.

 

It used to be one of Azazel’s loyal little buddies. Sent to torment fourteen year old Sam in his dreams. For that alone, Dean wanted it. Wanted it so badly in his apprentices’ hands he craved it. Knowing that this particular demon flipped the switch for the demon blood in Sam’s veins—manipulated a nasty ivy vine on top of it—and got carried away, Dean screamed along with it.

He screamed with it for years.

“We’re best friends, you and me,” he sang to it often.

 

Master makes him move on.

But because Master is pleased with his progress, he gives Dean two gifts. One new set of tools and a man no one misses or mourns. A man who, busy toying with minor demons and addicted to blood himself, stumbled upon Sam and Azazel’s pal.

A man Dean wants to play with.

 

“Eric Dale,” Dean laughs, excitedly examining his new blade. “Let me introduce myself. Dean Winchester, just like you said. Let's get started.”


End file.
